


she wears her dress like a sail

by feralphoenix



Category: Blaze Union, Yggdra Union
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: In which Emilia's worries have gotten corrosive, and Nessiah feels some kind of way about that.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	she wears her dress like a sail

**Author's Note:**

> _(One must work and dare if one really wants to live._ – No method is perfect, he said, but perfection is always unlovable.)
> 
> every time atlus usa gets their hands on a dept heaven game they change a fuckton of names. sometimes this is because they picked a chunky font and would rather shorten names to fit in the ui rather than fix their typography, sometimes this is because whatever sting came up with sounds clunky in english, and sometimes this is for arcane atlus usa reasons that no one understands except the translator in charge that day.
> 
> one of the names they changed in yggdra union was emilia's, because エミリオ would sound very masculine to an english speaker. yes this is your invitation to connect the dots with me. its 2020 and whats a cishet, there sure arent any in the entire bronquian army*
> 
> *except for russell who is a temp

“I find myself somewhat alarmed as it’s usually your brother I have to give these sorts of warnings to,” Nessiah says, cloaking concern in arch annoyance, “but I do believe that you should perhaps find a stopping point if you don’t intend to faint all over my floor. You may be small enough for me to carry, unlike Gulcasa, but I _am_ in the middle of something sensitive I would rather not leave for the length of time it would require me to hoist you to the infirmary.”

You ignore him and lower yourself to the ground again, counting _ninety-one_ in your head. You’ve managed to get through a hundred push-ups on the other arm, so that’s just nine more on your left before you can take a break to stretch. Sweat drips off your chin and nose to splash on the smooth polished stone floor of Nessiah’s atelier.

“Really,” he says. His chair scrapes back softly and footsteps approach you; a shadow falls over you, and even knowing and trusting Nessiah like you do, that’s not exactly a great feeling. You speed up: _Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four._ His chains clank; he’s probably putting his hands on his hips or folding his arms or doing some dumb dramatic pose, which you’re ruining by prioritizing your push-ups and not looking up. “It’s all well and good to keep in shape, especially if one is a platoon captain in an ongoing war effort, but overdoing it to the point of collapse rather defeats that purpose. And again, you possess more sense in a solitary toenail than your brother does in his entire _body,_ so if you wouldn’t mind explaining why I need to remind you of this, I would highly appreciate that. I am but a mere prophet, and don’t possess an almanac to divining any and every possible cause of human foolhardiness.”

Through his speechifying, you manage to reach your hundredth push-up, and finally kneel, shaking out your aching arms. “You sure do like the sound of your own voice sometimes,” you tell him.

“Really, Emilia,” Nessiah says. When you finally look up at him, wiping your face on your sleeve, he’s in the midst of spreading his hands at you as though beseeching and his mouth is skewed to one side. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

You plunk down on your behind and bend over, stretching towards your toes. “I just—I gotta get stronger. I gotta catch up to everybody else.”

Nessiah leans his waist against a stack of crates he keeps you don’t know what in, folding his arms. “You’re not even thirteen yet and you’re an entire _platoon captain,_ Emilia. I think you’re doing just fine the way you are.”

You shake your head. “But I can’t use my power at all. I can’t do what my brother can do. So I have to make up for it by getting as strong as I can.”

“Emilia.” His mouth folds and his voice goes just a little sterner. “Gulcasa himself can’t do what he routinely does if he wants to live past twenty-five. Do not castigate yourself for having the common sense not to replicate his idiot stunts. Using your _literal actual demon blood_ as a tool instead of a drug makes you sensible, not weak, and I know you understand this because you would never have made it as far as my _doorstep_ at eleven entire years old were you not both intelligent and sensible.”

“You don’t _get it,”_ you tell him, sitting up.

“Evidently I do not,” says Nessiah, exasperated, “so if you would not much mind elaborating in a way that I can understand, I am all ears.”

You open your mouth to do exactly that, then shut it and look down at yourself. You’re wearing a light dress beneath your weighted training vest, you picked it out to have something durable you wouldn’t ruin and that wouldn’t get in your way. Even _it_ is pastel pink and trimmed in ribbons. And you _picked_ it out from your huge closet of dresses, fluffy and lacy and petticoated, in every single color you like from palest purple to ruby red to solid black, in every fancy _material_ from the finest lawn to rich velvet. This your closet in your airy tower bedroom that’s furnished like Eudy packed the whole Rococo movement into a bomb and detonated it indoors just for funsies, which is actually a thing that Eudy might do if she could, just because she likes explosions _that much._ On your frilly pink canopy bed fit for a princess—which you actually are now—your pillows are surrounded by a phalanx of beribboned teddy bears on all sides. It is exactly everything you ever wanted when you were little but could never have, because when your mother was alive you were dirt poor, and also for that other reason.

“My brother’s mom,” you say, and then hesitate and go on. “Ms Baretreenu. She—I know she was a bad person. Like, I get it. Only a really, really bad mom would leave her kid alone with a person like our dad knowing what was happening, if she had the power to stop it. Only an awful person would _choose_ not to intervene. And only an awful horrible evil person would force their own kid to do what she made my brother do. I know that. I _know_ that. I get it. I’m not dumb.

“But she—” You have to struggle for the words here, and you clench your fists on empty air here while you grope for the right ones. _“Gulcasa_ is a gender-neutral name and so is _Garlot,_ okay? And when she came to my mother’s house to seal my powers, she did it by giving me a girl name. It is absolutely the least and most basic scrap of decency you could _ever_ have in this sorta situation but most—people—don’t. Okay?

“I changed my _true name,_ the name my own mom gave me, by _one letter._ Ms Baretreenu said I was allowed to still remember that name because my blood’s not as strong as my brother’s anyway and there was less risk, and I changed it by _one letter_ and I can’t use my power at all even though I call myself Emilia and everybody else does too. So—”

This is the point at which Nessiah sinks down gracefully, kneeling in a pool of his skirts, and reaches out to grasp your sweaty hands in his, which are cold even though it’s almost high summer.

“Emilia,” he says very gravely, “the seal on your blood _is broken._ I can guarantee this.”

“But,” you say.

“Stop,” he insists. You stop. This is possibly the most serious you have ever seen Nessiah get; there isn’t even the hint of a smirk or a sneer in his voice or on his face. _“Emilia is your true name._ The more you use it the more your power grows, and the more you use it the happier and healthier you are as a person.” He squeezes your hands lightly as though for emphasis. “Right now—here and now, as you are, you currently possess a precious thing that you spent many years hurt for the want of. _Do not throw it away._ Not for anything— _certainly_ not for measuring yourself against your idiot suicidal brother who should _never be anyone’s yardstick in this._ Do you understand me, young lady?”

When you don’t reply, Nessiah shakes his head and says, “If you keep up this ridiculous exercise regimen you have about three more days until you collapse with the same chronic fever Gulcasa gets because of _his_ constant overdoing it, so if you _need_ to have that happen as proof that I’m correct, there you are, but I wouldn’t make a habit of it. And the time spent sick and recovering would certainly run counter to your purpose of getting stronger.”

“Whatever,” you say.

“I will sic Gulcasa on you if I need to,” he goes on. “The same way I alert _you_ when _he’s_ at his usual nonsense. Do not test me.”

“That’s playing dirty.”

He smiles, thin and mean. “Have you ever known me _not_ to.”

(The argument would last a lot longer if you had any idea how hypocritical he’s being, but as it is you just sigh and relent.)


End file.
